


Cardboard Isn't Just For Boxes

by DeanAndHisCas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crack, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:11:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5215637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanAndHisCas/pseuds/DeanAndHisCas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean and Cas buy cardboard cutouts of one another and finally talk things out between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cardboard Isn't Just For Boxes

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a crack!RP, but quickly developed into something a bit more substantial. Of course I'd turn something this ridiculous into angst.

Cas hasn’t been back to Hot Topic since Dean took him there to pick up a birthday gift for Claire. But now that he’s “binged” the majority of what Netflix has to offer, he figures he’ll probably appreciate the novelty tees a lot more than he did during his first visit. He doesn’t notice it at first, but out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses something familiar.

 

Ah, yes. _Supernatural_. Of course.

 

He’s shuffling through a pile of t-shirts when a sales associate bounds over to greet him.

 

“Nice cosplay, dude!” the guy says, giving him an appreciative once over. His hair is a violent shade of blue. It suits him.

 

“Cosplay?” Cas echoes.

 

“Your costume,” he clarifies. “You’re supposed to be Castiel, right? From the  _Supernatural_  series? Bang on, man, good job.”

 

“Oh. Yes, I am. Thank you,” the angel beams. “I suppose I’m what you’d call a ‘mega-fan’.” He returns his focus to the merchandise rack. And that's when he finally sees it.

 

And the gears in his head are set in motion.

 

+

 

The Winchesters arrive from their hunt caked in layers of dirt and blood, most of it not even their own.  Dean wants nothing more than to shower and vacuum Baby’s upholstery, and Sam’s been griping about needing a sandwich for the past hundred miles. Dean flips on the lights, stifling a yawn, but chokes out a strangled yell instead.

 

In every corner of the Bunker squats an identical cardboard cutout of… _him_.  His face, his clothes, his bowlegs (he glances down self-consciously upon noticing this). He approaches one gingerly just to make sure, and—yep, it’s accurate to height, too. Sam, of course, finds it downright hilarious.

 

Cas somehow maintains a straight face while they grill him on where they all came from.

 

“Dude,” Dean groans, swiping a tired hand down his face.  _“Why?”_   Cas just shrugs.

 

“We needed to spice up the decor,” he deadpans.

 

They do their best to get rid of them, but either they miss most of them or Cas keeps finding where they’ve hidden them from him, because the cutouts seem to reappear when they least expect them.  Late-night excursions to the kitchen become a dangerous thing when they flip on the lights and discover Dean’s face frozen in a grimace less than six inches away. Dean storms out of the bathroom one day, a towel sitting on his hips and another wrapped around his hair, and Sam sinks into peals of laughter because it looks Dean finally found the one he and Cas had hidden in the shower.

 

After a quick Google search, Dean locates the nearest Hot Topic and drives over 70 miles into the next state, his jaw set in a scowl.

 

He’s the most intimidating customer the poor teenaged sales associate’s ever dealt with, and the ring in her lip quivers as she directs him to the part of the store where they keep the  _Supernatural_  merchandise.

 

Dean’s pissed off (and warmed, somewhat) to see that the Cas cutouts are all but sold out except for one, so he places an order for fifty–yes, she heard him right, fifty– Cas cutouts to a remote address in Lebanon, Kansas

 

For the time being he fishes a wad of tens out of his wallet and slaps it on the counter before sauntering out of the store, Cas tucked under his arm.

 

Sam can barely keep it together that night when Cas joins them in the library to go over the lore for the case they’re working on, and finds the Winchesters already in deep discussion with…himself.  Or at least, a two dimensional version of himself leaned crudely against one of the wooden chairs–HIS chair, no less.  The brothers are conversing with it casually, pausing periodically as though it’s actually offering a response. There’s even an ancient Men of Letters book cracked open in front of it. And oh, the look on Cas’ face is priceless enough that Dean’s almost satisfied enough to stop there.

 

But the shipment arrives one afternoon next week, and with a wide grin he signs for the package and begins setting up shop. Thankfully, Cas and Sam are out interviewing witnesses for a suspected Rugaru case out in Montana, so he’s got some time.

 

It can get lonely in the Bunker, Dean finds. Sure, he likes the alone time, but the walls can start closing in when there’s only one person occupying them. So after the first couple days, when he scares the living daylights out of himself after forgetting he’s hidden a Cas in a particular room, he grows kind of used to having them around. So what? They’re good company. It’s nice to talk to a familiar face in the absence of the original.

 

And so that’s how Dean finds himself opening up to the Cas’. Divulging things he’d never dare admit to the real deal, things he’d never even admitted to himself before. And though it sounds foreign saying those things aloud for the first time, it also feels kind of… right. Like a burden’s been lifted from his shoulders; just one less thing weighing down on him.

 

He clears his throat, staring purposefully into the glassy, unseeing gaze of the Cas cutouts. He notes distantly that they’re not nearly as blue as they should be.

 

“Cas, buddy– ” he starts. No, not “buddy”. That’s not quite right.

 

It’s become a bit of a script in progress, really. One that he keeps editing over the next few nights, and rehearsing with the cutouts till he gets it right. And it’s simultaneously freeing and depressing to know that the Cas’ can’t hear him, let alone respond. He shakes his head, rubbing his eye with a knuckle. The Legacy of the Men of Letters; the Righteous Man, chatting with a piece of cardboard. God, he’s losing it.

 

Sam checks in to let him know that their suspect has fled the state and they’re tailing him to Oregon. They’ll be gone for another week, at least.

 

Dean drinks a little too much that night. His heart seems to be tearing itself in two as he begs the Cas by the kitchen sink to respond. “Answer me, damn it!” he growls. “Don’t flap off and leave me here with my heart in my fucking hands. Not this time. Not again.” The next moment the cutout is  lying flat on the ground, a dent cleaved in its shoulder from where it had been struck.

 

Dean can’t bring himself to get out of bed the next morning.

 

He hides the evidence, not so much worried that Sam or Cas will find it, but because he can’t bear to see it for himself. After all, the cardboard can’t heal itself like Cas can.

 

He goes back to bed, plagued by rogue nightmares of the night they don’t speak of. Of his fist connecting with Cas’ jaw, of his hands tossing Cas across the library, slamming him repeatedly against the heavy wood of the desk. Cas, limp under his grip, not so much unable to fight as he was unwilling. Cas’ eyes staring blankly back from underneath Dean as he poised the blade inches from his chest, fingers knotted in the angels tie.

 

_“Dean,” Cas mumbled, blood dribbling from his lips. His hand reached weakly for Dean’s wrist. “Please.”_

 

Dean wakes in a cold sweat and drags a Cas from the hallway to his bed, tossing an arm over it and denying the tears that threaten to spring free.

 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I’m so damn sorry. Please come back to me. Please come back home.”

 

+ 

 

Sam and Cas wrap the case neatly and arrive at the Bunker a few days later in good spirits. Sam collapses into hysterical laughter when he sees the new additions, and even Cas can’t help but grin faintly at the bold retaliation.

 

What they don’t expect is Dean’s flat, stone-faced greeting from his bedroom, followed quickly by a slammed door.

 

Sam and Cas share a quizzical glance. Sam raises his knuckles tentatively to knock, but Cas closes his hand over his fist, shaking his head. “Let me,” he says quietly.

 

Cas turns the knob slowly, gaining confidence when he doesn’t hear any protests. Dean’s hunched over at the foot of his bed, head in his hands and fingers clawing at his hair. Cas blinks a few times as he notes the two-dimensional third party lying across the bed, but he doesn’t comment.

 

As Dean raises his chin, it’s all there. Cas can see it in his dead stare that bores into him. Something sinks in his gut. So this is it. This is the moment everything’s come down to.

 

He’s just not sure he knows what to say.

 

But Dean knows. Dean’s been rehearsing it time and time again to ears that couldn’t possibly be listening. He opens his mouth to begin, but Cas cuts him off.

 

“I know,” he admits softly. “I heard you the first eight times. Then I had to tune you out, because it was getting rather repetitive and I couldn’t concentrate on the case.” His lips crack into a sad smile. “Dean…I know.”

 

Dean’s mouth opens and closes, a bit like a fish. “You–” he splutters. “I didn’t- you can’t  _do_ that, Cas!”

 

Cas throws his arms up. “I didn’t do anything!” he says defensively. “Whatever you said to…me-” He casts a sidelong glance at the cutout on the bed, “-Was powerful enough that it was translated as prayer.” Cas lowers his gaze. “I can sense…longing, Dean. I hone in on it, and it’s particularly strong, in your case.” His eyes flit up briefly, pleading understanding. “A profound bond’, remember? I wasn’t lying about that. Therefore I’m more in tune with your prayers, and your…” He waves a hand nondescriptly. “Desires.”

 

Dean doesn’t say anything for a while. He just lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, legs dangling over the edge. Cas turns away, swallowing the ever-growing lump in his throat.

 

“Desires?” Dean repeats, startling him. “Dude, what is this,  _Casa Erotica?_ ” Cas’ lips twitch at the corner.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” he says in a low voice. “Please don’t change the subject.” His voice cracks. “Please, Dean.”

 

Dean nods, brow furrowed. So this is really happening. “Okay,” he begins slowly.  “So you know what I have to say. What’s your piece?”

 

Cas’ breath shudders out in a deep exhale. He makes his way over to the foot of the bed, chucking the cutout of himself to the floor and lying shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean. Together, they stare wordlessly at the ceiling as Cas works his way through the thick brambles of thought clouding his head.

 

“My piece,” he says quietly, “Is that I want to be with you till the day I die, and every moment in between.”

 

Dean’s breath hitches next to him.

 

“But not if that means things continue the way they’ve been as of late.” Cas closes his eyes. It’s easier that way, he finds; speaking into the dark. “Not if we keep harming one another and scarring each other beyond physical wounds.” He rolls on his side and finds Dean’s face already there, the golden-green of his eyes muted by the dark. “We can’t go on like that, brushing past it like it never happened.” His voice is nothing more than a whisper now. “Dean. At this rate, we’re both gonna break.”

 

“I think we’re both already a little broken, Cas,” Dean chuckles, and they’re so close that Cas can feel the rush of warm air on his lips.  

 

“Not broken,” Cas breathes. “Just a little bent.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs against the corner of his mouth. “I’m so sorry, Cas.” Cas closes his eyes, an unfamiliar wave of peace washing over him. Dean’s hand is reaching tentatively for his waist, waiting patiently for permission before Cas nods and it rests, just above his hip. Cas’ teeth grit, steeling himself for flashbacks that don’t come, and one by one, his muscles relax as he sinks into the sensation of Dean’s touch. His eyes flutter open, and there’s nothing under Dean’s lashes but longing and need, and it’s nothing if not overpowering for the angel.

 

And in the next moment, Dean’s lips are on his, soft but urgent, uncertain but deliberate. And as Cas presses back, he knows, now, that while the Bunker is his home, this is where he belongs. Here, with Dean, with nothing between them but love in its purest form.

 

+

 

Sam, of course, knows exactly what happened, if not from intuition, then from the way his brother won’t let go of Cas’ hand. The two of them arrive at the library table for breakfast the next morning to find Sam biting back a shit-eating grin. The chairs opposite him have been dragged together, a Dean cutout in one, leaning against the Cas cutout in the other.

 

“Real mature, Sammy,” Dean snorts. “Bet you’re real proud of yourself for that one.”

 

Cas doesn’t say anything, but rises on his toes to kiss Dean sweetly on the cheek. Dean reddens, eyeing his brother and waiting for the ridicule to begin.

 

But to both of their surprise, Sam doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t pretend to gag. He just smiles contently into his coffee, relieved that those two have finally figured it out.


End file.
